


Gallery

by smexy4smarties



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 16:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smexy4smarties/pseuds/smexy4smarties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exhibition of all my one-shots for solareclipses' "The Canon Tour" contest. Rated T through M, with various characters. Tears of both heartfail and humor are promised; your time back is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pre-Twilight Round: Matka

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Stephenie Meyer wrote and owns the _Twilight_ series, and if you were to read it again, I think you'd find that none of the Denali sisters are ever portrayed as vicious mean girls out to steal Edward from Bella. I wrote and have some sort of semi-claim to the following, and, for once, I tend to agree with Steph. There's no reason to depict them as such.
> 
> **Note:** Thank you to you-know-who for sprinkling my work with her beta dust and to my-little-secret for once again giving the seedling of my idea that extra boost it needed to flourish. You're like fertilizer for my plot bunnies. :)
> 
> **Title:** Matka  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Characters:** Tanya, Kate, Irina, Sasha, Vasilii.  
>  **Summary:** A mother's love is unconditional, but what if she doesn't love you enough to begin with?

Yes, Mother. I can see you are flawed. You have not hidden it. That is your greatest gift to me. -Alice Walker,  _Possessing The Secret of Joy_ [1992]

**. . . . .**

It's searing, sawing through her muscles, singeing her nerves. She almost wants to go back to before, when she hadn't thought to open her eyes. Then the pain was infinite, indescribable, but unfocused. She couldn't pinpoint where it began and where it ended, and she'd quickly come to realize that she couldn't control it.

Now, she shuts her eyes again, but the vision is etched onto the back of her lids—so much light, so much color, so much  _vivid_.

"Katrina, open your eyes for me."

No. Doesn't this woman know how it hurts? Katrina's ears are already pounding, her skin throbbing, and vision is the only sense she can shut off. She doesn't want to look, to see. She'll die of the overload.

" _Dráha_ , listen now. If you don't give your eyes time to adjust, they will continue to burn. You have to look around, take things in. It will get better. It will stop."

A hand whistles through the air and lands on Katrina's upper arm; it's meant to be reassuring, she's sure. Some small part of her mind tells her this; the rest shrieks with the agony of too many neurons firing at once, and her mind floods with information. Her senses tell her that the hand is freezing, but internally. This cold is not the product of a chilled human, but a dead one.

While she  _knows_ it's not, the appendage still feels hot and heavy on Katrina's arm. Her skin crawls at this woman's intrusion, and she's vibrating, she's buzzing.

" _Do piče_!" The hand is gone, and the hush-honeyed tones of the woman's voice are now brass, obnoxious and bang-bang-banging each curse word into her skull. How is it possible for anyone to be so  _loud_?

" _Matka_!" A new voice now: not honey, not silk, but the strangled chords of a harp—oh-so-angry, but crystalline. Perfect.

"Calm down, Tatiana. She can't control it. Blow out the candles, will you? It seems the light is affecting her worst of all."

There's two of them, then; she's outnumbered. It's no difficult task to calculate the distance between herself and the nearest window—she can feel, smell, and  _taste_ the cold seeping in through the poorly insulated cracks, frosty and bitter-fresh on her tongue—and she immediately places the women surrounding her. One stands to her left and another across the room in front of a breech in the scent of oak. Perhaps she's blocking a doorway?

The guesswork won't do, Katrina knows. She's at a disadvantage without all her faculties about her; she needs to open her eyes. First one eyelid and then the other—she expects she'll have to pry them open, but they flutter up quickly, eager to take it all in.

And there's so much.

Colors dance, vibrate, fuse for snatches of seconds, only to have her brain shift and pick out individual shades. A trail of light scratchings are littered across the ceiling—evidence of an insect inhabitant's night-crawlings.

Then there are the two faces. Sharp, perfect angles define smooth planes of flesh—one with lips turned down, the other with a wide grin curling them upward.

The snarling woman perches on the window sill, daring her with an arch of her eyebrow to try and escape.

The other woman takes her hand, and it's happening again. The growl begins in the back of her throat, shivers through her, and now, with her eyes open, she can see the sparks pass along her skin. They jolt through her fingers and along those of this woman—this woman who clasps her hand even as Katrina witnesses the pain the lightning under her skin causes, this woman who smiles through the fire.

" _Moja dcéra_."

_My daughter._

Katrina's new mother holds on until she stops shaking.

**. . . . .**

He's so quiet, almost brooding. Tanya loves it. For one short moment in the the packed pub, Tanya thinks she could love  _him_.

Thank God her sanity returns.

Still, she takes him home, spares the moment to introduce him to her family, and watches him contemplate the idea of having all three of them—four if he could convince their "mother" to join in. It won't happen tonight. Tanya can't share him.

"This way," she murmers, and even if it's only going to be her, there's no way he can be disappointed as he follows her to the bedroom.

Kate hollers after them, crass as ever, while newborn Irina complains of her hunger, wordlessly assuring her older sister that she'll get the others out of the house.

She's losing clothing before he's even shut the door behind him, and she doesn't need to look to envision his expression. Proper woman don't sleep around, but women with  _any_ decency don't strip the way she just did, don't bare it all until safely under the covers of a bed.

_Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up. Before you lose yourself._

He's smiling, but it's a shadow of a grin: she turns to face it and it slides away. He doesn't want her to know that he's already hers.  _He_  wants to be a challenge to  _her_.

Game on.

She's playing eager, rushing across the room, and her arms are around his neck, pulling him in,  _drawing_ him in. He's got his hands in his pockets still, so she takes that extra step, hitching both her legs up around his hips, forcing him to wrap his arms around her, support her.

"Kiss me."

"Touch me."

"Love me."

He's too slow on the last part. He's all about being gentle, intimate, perfect, and as much as she wants to give in and be with him, this can't be about that.

Because she can't keep him.

So she flips and straddles him—too hard, too fast—and sinks down without hesitation.

Then he has to ruin it.

"Oh, yes, my angel. Sweet angel."

"Shh," she tells him, hoping he'll get the message. She doesn't need to hear it; she doesn't  _want_ to hear it. The words are fake, awkward, and even worse, his voice is too much, too human.

_Be quiet and be faceless. Just be a body._

But he won't. He's moaning, groaning, grunting, and her hand slaps over his mouth, her nails dig in, and her eyes shut. Fast. Furious. Frantic. She's not close. She needs more.

More speed.

More friction.

More blood.

The crack of bone under her hips is a sharp reminder of what she is, what he is, and she can't pretend any longer. She opens her eyes, trains them on his.

_I'm sorry._

She hates when they don't even get to finish; she likes to give them that memory.

Ripped skin, ground bone—she's naked, covered in it all. There would be tears too, if she were capable.

"Tatiana."

Sasha made no secret of her approach, and it's not her style to ask questions, to pretend she hasn't just heard what's happened.

Tanya doesn't want her there. Who would want to be seen in such a state? It's disgusting, shameful, even for a demon. "I thought you took the girls hunting?"

"Kate took Irina. I felt you might need some of my time,  _dráha_."

"I'm fine"

"Oh, I know you will be." She hovers over the remains of the crippled wooden frame that was Tanya's bed and reaches to cup her daughter's face in one hand. "You don't like to kill them."

It's not a question, but she answers anyway. "No."

Sasha releases her hold on Tanya's face, tucks a crimson-dyed strand of hair behind her ear. "You'll think of something. You're too good, too smart, too beautiful to be . . . this." She almost expects her mother to apologize for the change, for robbing her of that pureness in humanity she can no longer grasp.

But Sasha merely stands. "And when you figure it out, you'll help your sisters, yes? You won't leave them behind?"

"Of course not,  _Matka_."

"That's my girl. I'll go draw you a bath.  _Lubim ta_."

_I love you._

**. . . . .**

Tanya is a lioness; her golden mane is mesmerizing, her teeth sharp and feral. Kate's like rushing water; her cool beauty sweeps breath away, but she has a deadly riptide under the surface.

She's nothing compared to them. She's handspun glass—beautiful, fragile, useless.

Irina's been like that since her change—always the smallest, always incapable, always in need of Matka's protection. She's the baby of the family.

So when she sees the child in Matka's arms, the way he clings to her, claims her, she wants to rip him apart herself. Venom streams through her body, and for once Irina doesn't feel so helpless. She's not dainty.

She's a vampire.

"What is this?" she demands of the intruders in her home, of the one in her mother's arms. There are raised eyebrows at her tone, at her stance, and Irina doesn't wonder as to why. She knows who these men are and what they're capable of.

Which is why it's so important she know why they're here.

She picks them out through the gamut their facial expressions run—Aro's jubilant smile, Marcus' impassive features, Caius' deep scowl—and it's no surprise when Aro steps forward, calming his incensed brother first with little more than a touch of the hand.

"I think it's obvious why we're here, my dear." His voice washes over her with the grating, soothing notes of condescension, and it takes all she has not to snarl at this elder vampire, this supposed king. His eyes flicker from her to the  _thing_ hunched in Sasha's arms, and Irina isn't the only one who's followed his gaze.

" _Mamička_ "—Kate's voice is a stricken whisper, a barely exhaled hiss of a sound—" _čo to je_?"

Sasha remains quiet, only squeezes the little angel-demon tighter. Irina assumes Tanya will speak up, that Tanya will explain—she always does when their mother gets a little out of sorts—but her older sister says nothing. Her eyes aren't even open, but clenched shut.

"There must be some sort of mistake," Irina tells them. "She only found him, right,  _Mamka_? You were going to turn him in?"

Silver-haired Caius sneers. "Do you really expect us to believe that, let alone that any of this comes as a surprise to any of you?"

"Well, Sasha, did your girls know?" Aro asks, though it seems to be more out of procedural courtesy. Because, really, how could they not have?

And there's no answer, no answer,  _no answer_ from their mother. Then the monster-child tilts his head upward, reaches out and grazes a hand across her cheek. "Mama? We feed now?"

"Soon," she tells him, and Aro's words overlap hers: "Unfortunately not, small one."

Irina can't begin to follow this. The way her mother snarls at the leaders of their race, places the child behind her back and growls, how these men seem to hold the sisters accountable too.

She's nothing again, because a vampire should never get as lost in their thought processes as she is.

The Volturi are conferring and she looks to Kate, begging her to step up, but Kate's lost too. The shakes have begun, and her sister's skin is flickering, sparking, and the only one whose ever been able to calm her at this stage doesn't seem to have a care right now for her three daughters.

"You will kill her, yes?"

Kate collapses, the lightning under her flesh causing her to convulse. Irina sinks to her knees and tries to reach out, tries to help her, but her focus is split. Tanya has regained herself, her leadership and she's speaking to Aro.

"You will kill her, and you mean to kill us as well?"

"Well, Tatiana, you've left us little choice. Immortal children are expressly forbidden. You know this."

She holds out a hand. Sasha has told them of his gift, has always urged them to be honest with the Volturi.

Irina wonders if her mother was honest.

"My sisters and I are innocent."

Aro smiles, intrigued by the unwavering conviction in Tanya's voice.

"You see then?" she asks him as he grips nothing but the tips of her shapely fingers, and his eyes are clouded now—a strange mixture of confusion and curiosity.

"I do. Brothers, it would seem that the cunning Sasha has indeed managed to hide the child's existence from her coven."

Irina doesn't hear the rest because their mother has finally turned to her daughters.

_Lubim ta,_ she mouths.

The child in her arms tugs at her hair, demanding attention. She smiles at him and taps him on the nose. " _Miljuem ta_."

_I love you most._

Then there are flames.


	2. Twilight Round: Croon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** This piece was written because so many told me it couldn't be done well—isn't that always the way? Whether or not I've managed to prove them wrong, Stephiekins still owns it. Which is actually sort of comforting.
> 
>  **Title:** Croon  
>  **Rating:** T  
>  **Characters:** Rose  & Edward (non-romantic)  
>  **Summary:** I've been the human, dizzy and desperate for a boy that's all dark perfection, and roll your eyes all you want, Edward, but that's what you are. You're a demon to the likes of her. You're her Royce.

_I've got you under my skin.  
_ _I've got you deep in the heart of me.  
_ _So deep in my heart that you're really a part of me.  
_ _I've got you under my skin._

He sings for me daily, not to mention how often he hums that sweet nothings—everythings—tune into my ear. My response is always the same, always the almost-smile. I'm the marble-hearted, marble-skinned ice queen, the girl who says nothing to her lover in return.

I don't need to.

I live those lyrics, breathe that melody, and from time to time, I dance. I dance to the beat that thrummed through his veins during that first fox trot with the grizzly bear.

_Duh-buh. Buh. Buh. Duh-buh. Buh. Buh._

I lose clothes, I lose inhibitions, and when everything else has fallen away, all that remains is the chain that constricts around my ribcage should his focus fall elsewhere, the chain that binds me to him.

Emmett McCarty owns me, and sometimes I hate him for it. I glare and hiss, toss hair and turn away from dimples and the seductive plea that is "Rosie" on his lips. I walk away from him and prove that this Hale bows to no power, not even that of  _love_.

And, damn him, he brings me right back with something that is so much more. How can I compare the soul-crushing  _everything_  throb we share to the fizzled human whimsy that is love? I can't. I don't try.

So you, Brother, when you gather all of us around the dining room table and tell us of her, the girl with wide eyes and nothing more than a crush, I remember being that. I can't speak for the rest of our family, though I know it's a vision that sets the quirk to Alice's lips and unbridled hope that prompts Esme's quick intake of breath, but yes, I'm upset with you, because I've been this girl.

I've been the human, dizzy and desperate for a boy that's all dark perfection, and roll your eyes all you want, but that's what you are. You're a demon to the likes of her.

You're her Royce.

You will steal from her. Hurt her. Ruin her.

The one thing you won't do is end her, and it will fall to another family member to grant that mercy, so in turn, you'll hurt one of us too. Who wins here, Edward? I wish I could say it's you, that you're simply selfish, but that's always been my vice, never yours. You're basically a god damn martyr, sickening as it is.

Which is why I offer up my services, but I know what your answer will be, bewitched as you are by this siren of a high schooler. So I turn to Carlisle.

"It doesn't have to be any big production," I tell our father. "The girl hit her head today. So maybe that injury turns out to be more serious than it looked." I force myself to shrug, as if her murder would be nothing on my conscience.

Well, it would be nothing more than another to add the tally, whereas the loss of you, of our family . . . I would slaughter anyone and everyone in the aftermath of that.

Don't doubt it.

The death of one girl to avoid such a fate doesn't seem so callous, does it?

Oh, snarl at me then; go ahead and be perfectly unreasonable.

"Every mortal goes to sleep with the chance of never waking up. The others would expect us to clean up after ourselves. Technically, that would make it Edward's job, but this is obviously beyond him."

Translation:  _I know you can't hurt her, Edward. I can. Let me help you._

Or just growl some more. That works too.

"You know I'm capable of control," I continue. "I would leave no evidence behind."

You rein yourself in, finally raise your glare from the tabletop to meet my own. "Yes, Rosalie, we all know how proficient an assassin you are."

You do know, don't you? I'd say you know a fair bit more than the rest of those seated at this table—even more than Emmett. I'm a master in the field of restraint, and my running total of mistaken victims sits at a number far below that of yours or even the ever-benevolent Esme.

My list holds only one name.

Yet—and argue all you like with this—my guilt far surpasses that of your own. It's no secret that I've never been troubled by anything like remorse for the murders of my own demons, so it all falls to that one lapse in control. I don't give up charge of my mind, body, anything to anyone.

I know that you understand that notion, Edward, scary as it may be to think of yourself as similar to me.

Carlisle is dismissing my mercenary services and diffusing—well,  _attempting_  to diffuse—the menace that radiates off of you and settles in the air above the table. I take from your darting glances that you've caught the military precision to Jasper's thoughts, that you know he too wants the girl dead, and I won't ask you to not hate him or me. Just listen.

"It's not personal, Carlisle." It's really not, Edward.  _Listen_. "It's to protect us all."

It's to protect me and the family, without doubt. In a way, it's even about shielding the girl. Mostly, though, its about you.

I'm selfish. For all my faults, I'm still completely aware of what I am and always will be. I can take from this world, and I can still resent it when it sends me something like Emmett in return, when my freedom is taken from me as payment.

Can you do that?

It seems more likely that wherever this path leads you, you'll crumble.

If you kill the girl . . .

If the girl dies of her own accord . . .

And heaven forbid if you change her.

She may be happy in this life, sure. Who am I to assume anything? I have Emmett as proof that not everyone takes to vampirism with the same level of brooding that you and I share. While I'm almost glad to envision her in your arms and a smile on your face— _almost_  for the fact that I'd have no one to sulk with in that particular future—could you still be happy once she was changed? I have trouble seeing it.

My narcissism is all blessing, not burden, difficult as that may be to believe. It's how I survived when Emmett returned from the hunt with blood in his eyes as opposed to the self-respect that was there when he left. He's the one name on my list, the one lapse in control I've ever allowed myself, and my only regret.

I can recite names for days.

Bess Rogers.

Norman and Virginia Darling.

Francis Donahue.

These are people that are dead because of  _me_ , because I needed him. Having Emmett was more important to me than their lives.

Kasey Costa.

Juliette Polk.

He'd meant to save Juliette, had meant to wipe away the horror that shaded my eyes when we'd heard zipper teeth parting and screams echoing through that alleyway. Maybe the girl would have been okay if she'd run while Emmett was busy throwing her attacker against a brick wall, if she'd listened to me when I begged her to leave, but she'd just stood there, transfixed. She'd been bleeding, he was barely two years old, and neither you or Carlisle were there to help me subdue him.

We were on our honeymoon.

No matter how often I try to love away that memory, for both our sake's, I still catch him in the quiet of our room sometimes, and all of his joviality slips away when he asks me if he's as bad as Royce. If he's worse.

It's my fault really. I hadn't meant to cringe when he reached for me, I just hadn't been able to stop the growl that rolled through my chest, and for it, I've exposed  _Emmett_  of all people to self-hatred. He's not like you or me. His burdens aren't birds perched on his shoulder—he can set them aside. He can smile and laugh and just  _shine_ , and he returns to let guilt out of its cage when its warbling becomes too much.

So, Brother, I guess the question is: could you hurt this girl like that? There are many downfalls to eternity, but the one no one thinks to warn you of is the havoc time can wreak on the soul, the mind, the being. Eventually, everyone has something to hate themselves for. Maybe the girl can deal with that, but I know you.

You're a god damn martyr.

Your own past you can handle, but this Bella Swan will be the end of you.

"It's just being responsible," I say, frowning at Carlisle. Doesn't he see what this will do to you?

I guess not, as he shakes his head, and Emmett reaches for my hand on the table, grasps it and squeezes a bit too tightly. He doesn't approve of what I'm doing here; he thinks I should leave you to sort this out on your own.

Well, actually, what he said is that I'm being a bitch and to cut it out.

"The question," Carlisle continues, "is whether we should move on?"

I don't know, Edward. Should we?

"No," I moan, rather dramatically in my opinion, though I am an exceptional actress. "We just got settled. I don't want to start on my sophmore year in high school again!"

"You could keep your present age of course," Carlisle assures me, and his eyes follow me and you. He's caught that there's more to this conversation.

"And have to move again that much sooner?" I ask, and he only shrugs. "I  _like_  it here. There's so little sun, we get to be almost  _normal_."

Challenge me, Brother. Tell me that we have to leave, that there is no other choice, and Emmett and I will follow. Hell, I'll let you pick the next destination.

I don't like to see you alone. I want it all for you—drawn-out mornings in bed, arguments about socks on the floor, smiles that the rest of the family pretend not to notice. I want you to fall in love and so much more. You deserve  _everything_.

I've heard you speak of her blood—how it's sweet where there should be tang, spicy when all the rest of us smell is salt. It appeals to you, there's no doubt about that.

But does it croon? Have you heard the seductive melody in her blood that finds its rhythm in your own ghost pulse? The yearning beat that wants to jump out of her veins and crawl inside yours?

The promises of safety and comfort and  _completion_  are too much to resist, and if you had known them, Bella Swan would not be alive today. Whether you killed her or brought her back to Carlisle as I managed, she would not have walked out of that Biology classroom unscathed.

You may love her, Edward—I'm willing to concede that—and because of that affection, you may feel inclined to protect her. You may feel a  _compulsion_  to save her. But we are more than human, we require more than that of  _love_ , and I refuse to just stand by while you follow this to its bitter end.

Come to me when you find the meter to your stride replicating the pulse of her heart.

Tell me when you can't exist without her, and I'll fight by your side.

Let me know when you find the girl who sings for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics at the beginning of this piece are from "I've Got You Under My Skin," written by Cole Porter and first performed by Virgina Bruce in the 1936 musical "Born to Dance." When it comes to the tune that Emmett hums to Rosalie, though, I tend to think he'd prefer the Frank Sinatra version released a decade later.
> 
> All of the dialogue used was directly quoted from the partial draft of "Midnight Sun," pages 82-83, that is available on Stephenie Meyer's website.


End file.
